The Poison Tree
by Nichts
Summary: A story about two young men, trying to find something close to happiness in a world that has none.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: I got the idea for this story about…oh, almost a year ago, while I was trying to memorize the poem "The Poison Tree." I wrote the prologue that day. At that point my plan was for a long, one-chapter thing focusing solely on Nagi. I ended up scrapping everything I wrote besides the prologue a few months later, deciding to go from a different angle. I've got a few chapters written; I'll upload them as I become satisfied with them (they'll probably get uploaded to my livejournal first, so if you're interested, come comment on them.) This is will be the only author's note and disclaimer stuff included in the story. _

_Disclaimer: Weiss isn't mine, the poem isn't mine, the story is mine._

_Warnings: This story contains the death of major characters. It will also contain shounen-ai in some amount or another. Hints, certainly, but full out smut, not likely. I won't list pairings for the plot's sake._

**The Poison Tree**  
Prologue

* * *

This is a story. It's not about a girl, it's not about teenage angst, it's not about love, lust, or romance. It's about a young man, a boy who is no longer a teenager, but not really an adult. It's about the boy he met, a boy who is not a child and is more jaded than any adult has the right to be. It is the story of how the boy changed the young man's entire world, and how they both learned a little about living life and finding happiness. Well, not true happiness, not exactly. Because no one can ever be truly happy.

Can they?

Ken surveyed the scene in front of him with growing elation. Never had a destroyed building looked so beautiful. Skeletal walls and dead wires ran haphazardly through the rubble, portions of the building still standing despite what looked to be an expert demolitions job. Ken had blown up quite a few buildings in his life, so he knew a professional job when he saw one.

He and Omi were encamped a safe distance from the rubble. The building had exploded just as they had arrived, scaring the daylights out of both of them. They had monitored the building closely afterward, looking for signs of life, but nothing had been spotted. Technically, they hadn't even started their mission, but Ken was more than ready to leave. They couldn't run reconnaissance on a destroyed building, certainly!

"I guess we have to go home," Ken said, trying to keep his enthusiasm out of his voice. Omi gave him an annoyed glare before launching into a lecture.

"Of course we can't go home! If our target was in that building we'll have to cancel tomorrow's assassination mission! And if he wasn't, I'll have to do all new research to find his new location! We need to know if he was in there!"

Ken almost cringed against the tirade. "But what if someone's still in there? What if the cops show up? It was a big explosion…"

"We haven't seen anyone, a blast like that should have taken out everyone inside. And this is a really secluded mansion, since the target didn't want the cops snooping around. I seriously doubt they'll show up."

"Alright, alright, we continue the mission." Ken said, throwing his hands up in surrender. So much for an early night.

Omi smiled brightly at him before walking up the slight hill towards the remains of the mansion. Ken jogged after him, his shoes making squashy noises on the dewy grass. It was just his luck to be on this mission with Omi. Too bad it wasn't Yohji instead of Omi. Yohji hated reconnaissance just as much as Ken did. But no, Yohji had a date. Damn that Yohji, damn him to hell.

Ken sighed as he came to the top of the hill. The building didn't look nearly as beautiful as it had a few minutes prior. Dark clouds had gathered and blocked out the moonlight and stars, thunder rumbling in the distance. Omi was already poking around the fringe of the rubble, boards and cement making groaning sounds where he walked.

"Uh…Omi, are you sure we should go in there? It doesn't look too stable…"

"Come on Ken, get a backbone!" Omi chirped, balancing on a pillar of cement.

"I've got a backbone!"

Omi rolled his eyes and leapt off the cement, causing little puffs of ash to billow up. "Yes Ken, you have the strongest backbone of any tadpole I've ever met." He snickered and disappeared through an intact doorway.

"Tadpoles don't have backbones, for your information!" Ken yelled.

"Forget about it, Ken. Go around to the other side and see what you can find. We can search faster if we split up."

"Yeah yeah," Ken muttered, turning on his headset. He trudged around the outskirts of the building, heading for one of the intact wings. Thunder became louder, lightning flashing high in the atmosphere. He would do a really quick search, and then they could get out of here before it started to rain.

Ken coughed and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve as he entered the building. Ash rose in huge clouds around him, and the place smelled horrible. Thick, choking. It was the smell of blood, Ken could place it immediately, but he couldn't see more than three feet ahead of him. He could be walking into anything.

"This place is darker than a cow's ass," he muttered.

"Is that really a saying?" Omi's voice came out sharp from the headset, and Ken jumped. He had forgotten about the damn thing.

"No, but it's true, and you scared the bejesus out of me." He waited for his adrenaline level to come down a few notches and then moved cautiously down the hallway.

"Sheesh, didn't you bring a flashlight?"

"Of course I didn't! How was I supposed to know I'd be creeping around in the freaking dark like a rat?"

"I brought a flashlight."

"Good for you." Ken said, hoping Omi would catch the sarcasm through the headset.

He continued in silence for a few more minutes before reaching a doorway on his right. The smell was stronger. Much stronger. Ken stepped wearily into the room, tensing his muscles, prepared for anything. He had only taken a few steps when his foot splashed into a puddle. He took one more step and something wet squished under his shoe. Ken stopped in his tracks.

The building storm took that moment as a great opportunity to illuminate the room with a flash of lightning, and Ken felt his stomach drop out at what he saw. He was used to scenes of carnage…but this, this was new.

_Ohmygod, I think I'm gonna barf._

"Omi, you need to see this."


	2. Part One

* * *

The Poison Tree  
Part 1  
_I was angry with my friend:  
I told my wrath, my wrath did end._

* * *

"We can't do anything, Ken-kun," Omi says, brushing his damp hair away from his face. The boy rubs at his pants uneasily, clenching his fingers around the material. If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't be able to tell that Omi had been puking his guts out five minutes ago. But I was there; I sat by his side and rubbed his back while trying my hardest not to join in the barfing. There is nothing more nauseating than seeing someone else hurling.

Now we sit together on a grassy hill, thunder clouds roiling overhead, the demolished building with its hidden carnage in front of us. Omi chews on a piece of gum – courtesy of me. I may not carry flashlights, but I carry gum. Always prepared, that's my motto – as he thinks over the current situation. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his hands hang between them limply; the picture-perfect dejected kid. He's got a lot on his mind, that's obvious.

I found Schwarz in that building. Well, I found their remains. Most of them, I think.

My stomach gives a lurch at the remembered sight of such a bloodbath. I really don't think I'll ever forget it. So I suppose that there is one thing more nauseating than someone else's barf. The scene in that building.

Someone tore them apart. Someone, something. They had been slaughtered, ripped limb from limb, all of them. Except one.

"There is nothing we _can_ do," Omi amends his earlier statement. "I know that we haven't fought against Schwarz since the fall of Esset four months ago, and we have been going after the same targets lately…" he chews on his lower lip, looking at the building warily, "but they still are…were…our enemy," he concludes. He glances at me, and I know that he is looking for my approval. He wants some kind of assurance, he wants to see that I agree. I can't give him that, and he can see my reluctance in my eyes.

"Well what do you want to do, Ken?" There is no anger in his voice, only weariness. And fear. Schwarz was powerful. Better than us, although no one wants to admit to that. Someone who could defeat Schwarz could also be the end of Weiss, certainly. Omi knows this. He also knows that inside that building is the one remaining Schwarz member. "We can't take him to a hospital not owned by Kritiker; there'd be too many questions, but we can't take him to a Kritiker hospital either, they'd kill him on sight. We can't kill him without orders…All we can do is report the situation to Birman and let Kritiker take care of it."

"Do you think it's safe to leave him behind? He knows what happened, maybe he'll tell us." I know he never would tell Weiss anything, but I don't want to voice my real reasons for not wanting to leave the boy there.

"He's a threat to Weiss if we try to take him home, Ken, and you know it. He's injured, but he's still dangerous."

He's just a kid, I argue mentally, but on the outside I merely nod my head. I rise to my feet, slipping on the wet grass. Omi takes my hand as I reach out to help him up, and I pull him off the ground. He looks back at the ruined building for a moment as the rain starts falling before heading back down to where our bikes are hidden. I follow reluctantly, my thoughts spinning in circles as I replay the last few minutes.

The room I walked into had been the scene of something surreal. It was as if I had just stepped onto the set of an American slasher film. Blood was everywhere. It dripped down the walls to puddle on the floor, while splatters on the ceiling were already drying. Every time I put my feet down, something squashed underneath them; torn chunks of flesh, pieces of hair, strings of rubbery pink that could have been intestines, other red and gray lumps that I couldn't, wouldn't, identify.

After I called for Omi, I began counting body parts. I felt numb, disconnected, this was all just part of the job. A finger there, half of an arm over here, oh look, a whole torso in the corner. But no heads. Strings of hair, yes, but no heads to be found.

By the time Omi arrived, I had counted six torsos. One I recognized as the target's, another was his personal secretary. Three could be easily identified as Schwarz; a gaudy green jacket, a blue sleeveless vest, and a white suit that I vaguely remember the precognitive-American guy wearing. One torso I could not identify. It was obviously a woman; our target was male and accounted for. A visitor with awful timing, I suppose.

And as Omi stood in the doorway to the room, trying to take in all the carnage, I noticed someone else. The boy. The telekinetic, the one who looks about Omi's age. At first I thought he was dead, but I realized he was only unconscious, just seriously wounded. He lay in the farthest corner of the room, blood trickling down from his forehead and various other places, pooling around him to join the lakes and rivers of blood already on the floor. Slim fingers curled around a long lock of bright orange hair, bloody from where it had been ripped out of someone's scalp. His breathing was shallow, his fists clenched and released spasmodically.

I think, though, it was his expression that bothered me the most. It was as though he had lost everything.

Weiss is my replacement family. They are my parents, my siblings, my best friends all rolled into one. And I think that if I ever lost them, if I ever saw them ripped apart like Schwarz had been, I would have that same expression on my face.

And that, I suppose, is one of the main reasons that, two hours after Omi and I had left, I went back to that destroyed building, and I brought Nagi Naoe home with me.

* * *

I may not be as stupid as my teammates think, but I have no delusions of genius. I certainly have no delusions about my first aid skills. Sure, I know how to stitch up a small wound or fix a dislocated shoulder, but my medical expertise ends there. 

That's why Nagi is lucky to be alive.

Well, the fact that his wounds aren't as serious as I had first thought helps. Most of the blood on him was not his, and after I cleaned him up – that was an awkward adventure all on its own – and settled him in my bed – now where the hell am I going to sleep? – I found that most of his wounds were within the scope of my training and should heal with time and rest. I think. How should I know?

I just hope I got all of the major lacerations. I could have missed a cut or two; I didn't want to take off all his clothes, I was too embarrassed. I mean, I think that's crossing a few boundaries there. Not only do I bring an enemy into my apartment and put him in my bed, but I strip him naked as well? Ha ha, I think not.

So I just treated what I could see, although I took his shirt off to get at the chest wounds better. He had two deep lacerations across his upper chest, and I had to stitch them up, along with a rather long and nasty looking cut across his back. There were only minor injuries on his arms and legs, and a shallow but bloody cut on his forehead. Which makes me wonder, because one would expect most of the injuries to be on his arms. When a building starts falling, most people try to shield themselves with their arms. Great, another mystery.

I put his shirt back on when I was done –hooray for decency – and just set him in my bed. Gross. Now I'm going to have to go out and buy new sheets, because these ones are all covered in creepy bloody crap, and I'll never be able to get the stains out.

So now, thanks to my overwhelming generosity – stupidity – there is a boy laying in my bed. Not just any boy, but possibly the most dangerous person Weiss has faced, and a member of the most ruthless assassin group known to Kritiker. Shit, I should have listened to Omi.

But I couldn't. I couldn't just leave him there. Not with that look on his face.

So if he kills me when he wakes up…well, that'd suck. I can only hope he won't. I would bind his hands, strap him down to the bed or something, but that won't protect me from his telekinesis at all. I wonder how far his range is? Maybe he can't hurt things outside of whatever room he is in…so if I stay out of the bedroom, I'd be okay. Maybe, if I feed him, he won't kill me. Kids like food, right? Sure they do. The ones on my soccer team will eat anything.

How old is he, anyways? Kritiker never gave us much information on the black assassins, leaving us to figure things out on our own, like usual. Lying there, looking so dead against my dark blue sheets, he doesn't seem any older than eleven or twelve. It's upsetting to think about; a boy that age should be out making friends and playing sports, not killing for money. I suppose it was the same way for Omi, though. At least I had the chance to live my life for a while before falling into Kritiker.

I glance towards the clock on the bedside table, and the steady green numbers tell me that it is four-freaking-thirty in the fricking morning. That means I've been home for over an hour. Soon I will be confronted by the hairy ass-crack of dawn. Then Omi will get up for school, followed by Aya and Yohji, who will be opening the shop. I, being the amazingly cool person that I am, don't work until the afternoon shift with Omi. Okay, so it's actually because I ran the mission last night, and Aya and Yohji didn't. Lucky shits. But I suppose that if I hadn't gone on the mission, I wouldn't have found Nagi. Aya probably would have skewered the kid. Maybe he's not that heartless, but he could be.

I stretch my arms and my back cracks loudly as I rise from the chair pulled up next to the bed. I wander into the kitchen, my socks making funny shuffling noises along the carpet. My favorite mug is sitting on the counter. I sniff it to make sure it's clean – one never knows – before pouring milk into it and setting it in the microwave. It spins lazily and I watch it. It's a Halloween mug; bats and a comical black cat appear as the mug is heated.

Despite the fact that I don't have to wake up early tomorrow –today? This morning? – and I can sleep in, I have decided not to go to bed at all. I'm completely uncomfortable sleeping while Nagi is in my apartment, even though he probably won't wake up any time soon. Hence the hot chocolate. I need caffeine. Not that wussy hot-cocoa-in-a-packet shit. Real cocoa powder with milk and lots of sugar. "Just add water" my ass. Good cocoa doesn't use water. Cocoa. What a messed up word.

The microwave beeps and I grab my mug, ignoring the heat. It's not as if I can actually feel it on my palms, anyways. I deposit it on the counter and mix in the cocoa powder and sugar, careful not to spill any and taste-testing it periodically. I take my cocoa – again with that retarded word – very seriously.

Cocoa ritual complete, I head back to the bedroom, swearing as I drip chocolate on the rug. I'll clean it up later. Not really, it'll just join all of the other spots on the carpeting.

I set the cocoa on the small table next to the chair and make myself comfortable, my back against one armrest and legs hanging off the other. The chair is between my bed and the window; if I lean my head back far enough, I can see the slowly-lightening night sky. Neighboring buildings frame the coming indigo dawn, and the stars slowly fade out of existence. I have never seen anything so pretty.

* * *

There's a reason people don't sleep in chairs, and I just gained first-hand evidence to this logic. My neck is a mess, my legs are numb, and my back feels like I got a massage from a sumo wrestler using a bowling ball. In other, less fancy words, I feel like shit. Big, stinky shit. 

I feel asleep in the chair next to the bed after deciding not to go to sleep. By the time I woke up, it was already noon and I only had half an hour before my shift started. I've wasted the last fifteen minutes deciding whether or not I have time for a shower, and now I definitely don't have time for one. Which is bad, because I kind of smell. But I walked around in the rain last night during the mission, and that counts, right? Of course it does.

Nagi's still sleeping all coma-like in my bed, and I'm not really sure when he'll wake up, but I'm assuming it should be sometime soon. I'm really uncomfortable leaving him here, but I said that about sleeping, too, and look what happened. I debate my options as I cook up a gourmet dish of Easy-Mac.

I could tell everyone that I am sick, and make someone else cover today's shift with Omi and any other shifts this weekend, but that would raise questions and cause Omi to go into nurse mode – which is really, really annoying – and he would want to come up to my apartment and make me stuff – even more annoying, although Omi's a good cook, and I…can cook, but I hate doing so – which is a problem considering that the former enemy is sleeping in my bed.

That's pretty much my only other option, so I guess I'm up shit stream without the proverbial life-jacket and stuck going to work. It all sucks a crap and a half.

I stop the microwave when I notice my macaroni boiling over. I can never get it right; I either cook it too much or not enough. Little clouds of orange powder float above the bowl as I pour in the cheese-mix and stir it up. It clumps messily and I have to use my fingers to get it unstuck from the spoon. I lick them clean before eating the small meal. Most of my meals are like this; I prefer simple American foods, as anyone with my upbringing would.

I carry the bowl with me to check on Nagi one last time. He's still asleep. He really should be waking up soon, I would think. His injuries weren't that serious, and they could have been much worse; I assume he used his powers to keep the collapsing building from harming him that badly. Why couldn't he protect the rest of Schwarz, though? Clearly they were dead before the building fell, but if he could shield himself from falling concrete, surely he could have stopped whoever killed his teammates.

With lots of questions and no answers, I rinse out my cheese-encrusted bowl, change into a clean shirt – I can get away with wearing yesterday's pants, they're nice and comfy – and head out of my apartment.

Yohji is waiting for me when I get to the shop, leaning against the faux-marble counter with his usual nonchalant grace. It's empty; we close from twelve to one for lunch, and it's only twelve thirty. We have half an hour to get the shop ready to reopen.

We had a mission debriefing last night, before I went back and got Nagi, so I know that Yohji's aware of Schwarz's demise. So is Aya. They both had to be present, since it was kind of a big deal. Omi had to call Birman and everything, so that we could discuss how their absence would affect Weiss. Basically, we were told that Weiss would function as normal, but Kritiker would be on the look-out for suspicious powerful people who could take out Schwarz. Gee, that makes me feel so much more secure. Yohji was quite curious about what Omi and I saw, and he still is, because I wasn't in a talkative mood last night. But we all know that all talk of missions and death stops outside the shop. We don't mix work with… other work.

"Where's Omi?" I ask as I walk around the counter and grab my apron off its hook. I replace it with my keys. If I don't hang them up, I'll probably lose them.

"He's here, but he needs to go to the library to do some research, so he asked me to cover."

I nod and begin tying on my apron. I prefer working with Yohji. He's a hard worker – despite popular opinion – and he doesn't talk much or expect me to. Omi is the exact opposite, trying to make conversation constantly and prying into people's lives. On a day like today, when I'm trying to forget about all of these questions concerning Nagi and Schwarz, I really don't need Omi's nagging.

Omi comes into the shop from the small attached kitchen, backpack in one hand and a small piece of paper in the other.

"Oh, Ken-kun, I'm glad you're here! There's a new load of small trees in the back room, can you bring them in?"

And before I can groan about my already sore back, he's on to his next victim.

"I drew up a plan for the new window display using the azaleas and Japanese maples Ken will be carrying in," he says, thrusting the paper at Yohji. "It should be a pretty simple job." Yohji takes the sheet and studies it with an apprehensive look. His eyes grow wide after a few moments.

"This isn't simple! This is more complex than most of our mission plans!"

Omi shoots him a scathing glance. "It's as simple as one plus one."

How cliché. I look towards Yohji, waiting for him to counter. He rolls his eyes.

"No, it's more like 'as simple as the quadratic equation.'" Hey, that's pretty clever. Kudos for Kudoh. But really, I should break up this little argument before it blows into a full-blown fight. Omi's annoying me right now. I want him to leave. Go. Away.

"Isn't that the a2+b2c2 thing?" I feign a guess, trying to interrupt their verbal battle.

"No, Ken-kun, that's the Pythagorean Theorem," Omi replies, his voice taking on the tone of a mother correcting a preschooler. Well excuse the fuck out of me for not being a math genius. I might as well go all the way with this 'Ken is stupid' thing so he'll get tired of me and leave.

"Oh. I always thought Pythagorean was a Greek god or something."

It works. Omi rolls his eyes and then he's out the door with a wave and a promise to bring home carryout dinner. Yohji and I exchange glances and I wander over to stand next to him so I can inspect Omi's 'simple' plan. Yohji was right. He gives a sarcastic snort before tossing the paper in the trash can beneath the counter.

"I'll make my own arrangement."

"Will it be any better?" I ask, a thread of sarcasm lacing my voice.

"Just bring in the plants, slave, and don't question the wisdom of your elders," he says, giving me a playful shove in the direction of the back room. I laugh and enter the storage room to get the plants, and as the door swings shut I hear Yohji's final comment.

"You should take a shower, Kenken, you're beginning to smell."

* * *

I drag myself up the steps to my apartment, stabbing pains shooting through my back with every movement. I lugged plants across the shop for what had seemed like ages, and when we opened the place, we were bombarded by the after-school pubescent-girl rush. I haven't sat down all day. 

The door jams after I unlock it – it has for years, I'm too lazy to fix it – and I have to throw my weight against it a few times to get it open. I shuffle out of my shoes and kick them onto the mat right inside the door before I remember.

Nagi. I forgot the kid was here.

I run to the bedroom to check on him. I can't believe I forgot he was here! I am such a spaz-ditz. I stop in the doorway, surveying the scene.

The bed is a mess, twisted sheets and pillows on the floor, but it's empty. The boy is awake; he sits in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms clasped around them. His fingers are clenched so tightly, I can see the skin turning red around where they are digging into his arms. Dark blue eyes narrow at me dangerously.

Shit. Oh shit.

* * *

Is it possible for one's head to simply…crack open? Would the brain just…ooze out like the innards of a pumpkin, giving off a fetid odor and jiggling awkwardly? 

It feels like my head is going to do that. It would be quite interesting. This is the consequence of extending my powers to their limits. I'm not sure how long I've been asleep; if this time is anything like the last time I overreached myself, I can safely assume I've been asleep for a few days.

I don't know where I am, either. I haven't even opened my eyes yet, it's all too painful. I'll have to do it eventually, though. I must figure out where I am, and I have to get somewhere safe. Somewhere Esset can't find me.

I can be sure, without a doubt, that they don't have me yet. If they get me, they'll either kill me, wipe my mind, or tear me limb from limb, and despite the amazingly debilitating pain in my head and some general soreness, I'm feeling intact.

So…I'm somewhere. And I need to get…somewhere else. They know I'm alive. They've been monitoring Schwarz's bank accounts for a long time, so I can't get to any money. They know the location of every Schwarz residence or safe house, even the ones we didn't tell them about. They ripped the information from Crawford's mind before they shot him execution-style.

The full implications of what has happened, what I've done, begin to sink in and realization dawns. I've got nowhere I can go, I've got no money, I can't even hack some for myself because I don't have a computer. I'm fucked, I'm fucked, and I don't care. I may be fucked but I'm free. I can live on the streets, like I did when I was a kid. Live homeless until I die a miserable poor death.

The prospect amuses me so much I begin to giggle. Maybe I'm hysterical. Maybe I've cracked up. Maybe I've always been fucked in the head.

I continue giggling until the sound of a door opening snaps me out of it. Fuck. I wrench my eyes open, ignoring the sear of pain in my head at the sudden light. I'm in a bedroom. It's sparse; the bed I'm on, a nightstand next to it, a chair by the window, a small table with a mug on it. A dark closet with the door ajar. I hear a soft thud; someone taking off their shoes. I scramble around on the bed, wounds finally making themselves known and my vision blurring. I scoot off the bed and fall against the wall before sliding along it to the corner.

I can't use my powers, my head doesn't feel quite right. But I can defend myself from the corner if I must. I try to remain standing, but my vision waivers again and my legs decide not too cooperate. I find myself sinking to the floor, knees at my chest. Damn damn damn.

I watch the doorway warily, expecting anyone.

Anyone except the one who walks in. Siberian. Weiss. Fuck.

My head hurts.

* * *

He passed out again. I'm torn between being considering this a good thing or a bad thing. Being unconscious means he's harmless. But I'm worried. Should he just be dropping out of wakefulness like that? It doesn't seem healthy. But he isn't healthy, I guess, I mean, he is wounded and all. And I think I remember Omi once telling me that unconsciousness is a life-threatening condition. 

Sometimes I hate myself for my stupidity.

If I was smart, like brilliant-fucking-Omi, I wouldn't be having this problem.

The black TV screen stares back at me, not helping out at all. This place is so fucking quiet. It's weird, sitting alone here in the middle of the apartment I call home, in front of the TV that's never on. You'd think I'd be used to the loneliness after so many years. But this tight feeling in my chest, this sensation that I'm missing out on something, just won't go away.

I was part of a family of six kids. I was popular in school. I was a member of a close-knit soccer team. This quietness has always been abnormal. No one comes to visit, no one calls, I don't have any casual friends. It just feels…so strange.

Weiss may be my replacement family, but we're not close. Well, I lie. Yohji is my best friend. I can count on him to always be there for me and he does the same. But there comes a point where I don't want him to be there for me anymore. I don't ever want to be a burden to anyone. I don't tell him how I really feel, because I don't want him to think he needs to worry about me. Aya simply tolerates me, along with the rest of the human population. I suppose that's better than having him hate me. Omi tries to be there for all of us, but he has school friends he'd rather be with. Everyone seems to assume…that I'm okay. I'm okay not talking to anybody, I'm okay with being alone. I don't think I am.

And so here I sit, a nineteen year-old guy on a Friday night, in this apartment, staring at a blank TV screen that is no substitute for a friend. So pathetic, I could laugh. I would laugh, but I don't think it would make this feeling go away.

I pull my feet up onto the couch and lean to the side. Eventually, I lilt far enough for gravity to take over and I fall over on the couch with an amusing plopping noise. Now I'm laying sideways, and the TV looks different from this angle. You see something new everyday, they say. Or maybe they say you learn something new. I'm not sure, and I probably wouldn't care even if I wasn't exhausted.

It's almost midnight. I put Nagi back in the bed after he passed out in the corner, and at this point, I am beyond caring about him waking up while I'm asleep. Fuck, I'm beyond caring that I'm still wearing today's clothes. That means I'm still in yesterday's pants. Oh well.

I grab the blanket that's draped over the back of the couch and attempt to spread it over me before twisting around into a position more comfortable for my back.

Just when I've found the best way to sleep, I realize I've left the lights on.

* * *

I think, sometimes, that I am a self-centered person. Everyone seems to think otherwise, but I truly believe they are wrong. 

I mean, look at what's in front of me. A boy, one who is a danger to the only people I've got in this world, an enemy of the organization that saved my life and provides for me.

And why is he here? Because I'm selfish. I may say I brought him because he looked sad, because his teammates are dead, but I think I'm lying. I'm selfish and just so goddamn tired of being the only thing alive in this apartment. Yohji has his nameless girls, Omi has his special little school friends, Aya's got his sister, who finally woke up.

Me? I've got nothing. But now I've got this injured boy on the bed, and I've got something to be around, be there for. Sure, he'll probably leave as soon as he's better. Hell, he'll probably want to leave as soon as he's awake, but just for now, I've got something. And maybe that will be enough.

It's Sunday. The shop is closed; it's our official day off. Nagi hasn't been awake since the incident Friday night. I've spent most of my time since then sitting in this chair. Well, I worked yesterday too, but other than that, I've been here almost the whole time. It's not as if I've got a whole lot to do.

Soccer season is only in the summer for the little kids; apparently no one wants to play in January, when it's snowy and cold, so there's no one to coach right now. I'm not sure if I want to coach anymore, though. I love the sport, and I love the kids…but it kind of hurts. Watching them, it hurts. I can't watch games on TV, either. I…I just can't watch people do what I love, what I have been denied, what I want so much, without feeling near-physical pain. I just don't want to deal with it anymore.

A small movement draws my attention back to the bed. He's waking up, I think. I'm not sure what to do. If he uses his powers on me, I'm fucked.

Nagi's eyes open and he blinks a few times before focusing on me. I slap on my most disarming smile –it's disconcerting how easily I can smile – and try not to appear too threatening. Not that I appear threatening in the first place.

His hand twitches but he doesn't say anything, simply staring at me. I shift uncomfortably in the chair, trying to think of something to say. This silence is unnerving.

"Ummm…I'm assuming you know who I am…" The boy doesn't respond. He's still staring. Shouldn't he have to blink or something? God, that's creepy.

"You're at my apartment. You're wounded, but it's not that serious. Mostly bad bruises and a few major lacerations…" I pause, not sure what to say. "We found the remains of your teammates. They're all dead."

There's no emotion in those eyes, no reaction from that face. What did I expect? For him to moan and wail like some bereaved and weepy widow? Yeah right. I guess, that for a moment, I forgot he was an assassin. I expected him to react like a normal kid.

"You can stay as long as you want," I continue, "I don't recommend that you leave at least until your wounds are healed, but I'm not going to force you to stay, either. You aren't a prisoner."

He's still staring at me. Jesus, this is freaking me out. What is he trying to do, read my mind through my freaking eyes?

"Do you want some food or something? I imagine you're hungry, you've been out for a few days!" He closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head slightly. No.

"Well, you should at least have to use the bathroom or something. That's just not normal," I say, rising to my feet and stretching my arms over my head. My back is still sore. Fucking Omi and his fucking plants.

This time, Nagi considers for a moment before responding. He slides his arms up on the bed and pushes himself into a sitting position, resting his back against the headboard. I can tell it's hurting him to move this much, and I reach my hand out to help him as he tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

My arm is shoved away by an invisible force, and I retreat back from the bed a few feet. It's weak, nothing compared to what I've felt from Nagi during clashes between Weiss and Schwarz, but it's a display of power and I realize that.

"Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, teeth clenched and eyes closed as he struggles against the pain. He successfully gets his feet onto the ground and grabs on to the corner of the nightstand.

"Fine." I watch him as he sits on the side of the bed for a moment before I head towards the door. "The bathroom is right across the hall. If you change your mind about the food, just give a yell." He doesn't respond, doesn't even bother to look at me. He's a pitiful sight in his torn and blood-caked clothes, matted hair hanging down in front of his eyes. I should offer him a change of clothes – mine won't fit him, but I'll be generous and let him borrow them anyways – and a chance to shower, but I'll do that when he's feeling more receptive.

I leave the room and head down the hallway to the kitchen. Nagi may say he's not hungry, but I'm freaking starving.


	3. Part Two

**

* * *

The Poison Tree**  
Part 2  
_I was angry with my foe;  
I told it not, my wrath did grow

* * *

_

I wait until Siberian has left the room before pulling myself to my feet. This is definitely not a good thing. It's almost as bad as Esset having me. I lie; it's just as bad as being found by Esset. Because if Siberian has me here, than Weiss knows I'm here. If Weiss knows I'm here, than Kritiker knows. What Kritiker knows, Esset knows. See where I'm going with this?

So why haven't they killed me yet? Esset must know I'm here. Are they playing with me? Waiting to see what I'll do next? God fucking damnit. It's hard enough to deal with Esset, and now I have Weiss to worry about as well.

But why am I at Siberian's apartment? Surely they would want to keep me somewhere a little more secure than this. Of course, with my powers out of commission, Siberian on his own is enough to keep me restrained. The rest of Weiss is probably lurking around here somewhere, though. Perhaps Esset is trying to lull me into a sense of security.

I need to get out of here. But Siberian was right; I need to piss. Badly. I'm also starving, but I'd rather not stick around and eat. Personal preference, really. I don't like to dine with people who are out to get me.

I take a few steps towards the doorway, leaning against the wall for support. The skin across my back hurts and feels strangely tight; I must have stitches there. My chest simply burns with pain, my head feels like it's full of cat litter, complete with little cat turds, and my arms and legs are heavy. I am more fucked up than a cheap hooker.

I reach the bathroom successfully and lock the door behind me. It's meticulously clean, and rather sterile. A white marble counter rests beneath a small mirror. The counter is bare; the only sign of life in the bathroom is the shower curtain, a bar of soap on the counter, and a small hand towel hanging in its rack next to the sink. Which is good. I'm feeling nauseous already. I bet that if I was to see any knick-knacks, like cute wooden duckies lined up in a row on the counter, or designer soap bars in the shape of smiling fish, I'd hurl.

I use the bathroom, feeling uncomfortable the whole time. Using other people's bathrooms is not something I've had a lot of experience doing, and I can't stand it. I can't even use public bathrooms. It's just…weird. If I didn't have to go so bad, I wouldn't be able to go at all.

I'm still in my work clothes. The faux-school uniform is torn and bloodied beyond repair. I don't really care, I hated the thing to begin with. Why wear a school uniform if I don't go to school? It just doesn't make any sense. I suppose I'll have to deal with it for a little longer, though, until I can get out of here and steal some new clothes for myself. I wash my hands. It's futile, since there is still blood under my fingernails and on the cuffs of my uniform. Whose blood it is, I have no idea. Schuldig's, maybe. My own, possibly. I can't clean the blood out and I'll never clean the blood out and I can't get that voice out of my head.

_Please…_

I leave the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to take in my surroundings. There are two other doors in the hallways besides this one and the door to the bedroom. The other end of the hall opens to what I assume is the kitchen. Logic tells me that the front door to the apartment should be in that direction.

I head towards the kitchen, half-leaning against the wall for support. I don't quite trust my legs. I know I probably shouldn't be walking around in this condition, but I've got to get out of here. I stop at the end of the hall and look around warily. Where one Weiss kitten is, there are sure to be more. They tend to travel in clumps. What's the term for a group of cats? A herd? Flock? Gaggle? Oh, a litter. Or is that just kittens? Maybe Siberian drugged me, and that's why my head feels so off.

I was right, there is a kitchen in front of me. Siberian is digging through the pantry; his back is turned to me and he doesn't seem to know I am here. The kitchen is small; one side opens to a large living room. From here I can see the front door. My destination. Too bad there are two open rooms and a guy who kills people with steel claws in the way.

Siberian finds whatever he was looking for and turns towards me. He sees me and pauses, a clear jar of something red and chunky in one hand, and what looks like a can of tomato soup in the other.

"I thought you weren't hungry," he says, placing the jars on the counter before moving to the freezer. I glance towards the door. Maybe, if I run, I can make it without him catching me. Maybe, if I sprout wings, I can fly right out the fucking window.

Siberian catches the look and just shrugs before turning to paw through the freezer. Apparently he doesn't consider me a big enough threat to keep watching me. I don't blame him, I look pretty weak.

"Hey, if you want to leave, that's cool," he says, voice muffled by the freezer, "but you don't have to, and frankly, you look like shit. Might do you some good to stick around a while." I think I'm going to have to take a rain check on that invitation. Maybe next time I'll stay for tea.

He turns back towards me, holding a bag of frozen chicken breasts. Just what the hell is he planning on cooking? I decide I don't care, and I won't be around long enough to see. I take a few steps into the kitchen, grabbing at the counter as my stupid, traitorous legs weaken. I hate myself for letting Siberian see me in a such a horrid state. A few more steps, which are more like stumbles, and I'm at the wide entrance to the living room.

Stairs. There are fucking stairs in this apartment. What the fuck kind of floor plan is that? Sure, it's only three steps down into the living room, but with the way walking pulls the skin tight across my back and makes my head feel a little more off-kilter, they might as well be an entire flight. Great.

My treacherous legs decide it's rest time, and I find myself sitting on the floor, back against the doorframe. I turn so I can face the kitchen and Siberian. He may be holding a bag of frozen chicken, but he's still dangerous and I don't trust him. He's watching me. I suppose I should feel embarrassed for collapsing on his kitchen floor. I'm leaving a trail of dried blood flakes everywhere, too.

"I don't know why you're in such a hurry to leave," he says, setting the chicken on the counter before opening one of the cupboards behind him.

"Weiss is my enemy," I answer, as if such a stupid statement needed a response. Why the fuck should I stay with people who want to kill me?

"Weiss," he pauses as he lifts a large pan from the cabinet and sets it on the stove, "does not know about you. The only people who know you're here are you and me."

Oh, okay.

Wait. What?

"Liar," I accuse through clenched teeth. He must be lying. Siberian is Kritiker's loyal dog. Why would he ever keep something like this from then? They would kill him for such treachery.

He continues talking as he begins dumping things in the pan, oblivious to my earlier name-calling.

"Omi and I are the only ones who found you. Omi insisted on leaving you there, I went back and got you. As far as both Kritiker and Weiss know, you could still be back at that building.

"I didn't bring you here for information, or so that Kritiker could take you prisoner. I brought you here so that you could heal. And because you looked sad."

What the fuck is this kid on?

"But we're enemies," I insist, trying to be rational. Clearly, this kid isn't quite all there, unless he really did drug me and I'm hallucinating all of this.

"Weiss and Schwarz are enemies. The way I look at it, Schwarz no longer exists. I'm just Ken and you're just Nagi Naoe. Why do we have to be enemies?"

God, he is making my head hurt worse. I didn't think it was even fucking possible. I rub at my temple, ignoring my stiff, blood clotted hair. He seems so sincere, so naïve in his thinking. My instincts tell me to trust him. And if he's telling the truth…Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to stay here for a while. Just a little while. I like chicken.

"So…truce?" he asks, coming over to where I am sitting.

After a moment, I nod, and Siberian smiles. It's one of those smiles the romance novelists talk about, a smile that lights up a room, and all that sap. If I were a teenage girl, I would swoon at the sight of it. As it is, I might faint anyways, but it has nothing to do with Siberian's smile and everything to do with extreme hunger and my head feeling like a rock tumbler on acid.

He kneels in front of me and sticks out his hand, still smiling.

"My name's Ken Hidaka. Nice to meet you, Naoe-san."

I tentatively reach out, and we shake hands. He stands and goes back to the stove.

"Make yourself comfortable, lunch will take a few minutes."

That was awfully surreal. Did it really happen? I think I'll stay on the floor.

* * *

I find that reading the newspaper is a lot more informative than watching the news. The newspaper seems more real. It's focused, not as sensational as the TV news. Well, at least it seems that way to me.

It's been almost a week since Siberian and I declared our strange truce. He reads the newspaper every morning before work, except on the days he oversleeps, in which case he reads it when he gets home. So far, it's happened quite a few times.

He reads the comics first, and then picks his way through the rest, reading certain articles, ignoring others. I find myself surprised to see him taking an interest in topics such as politics and international affairs. But then, why am I surprised?

Schwarz, through inside information, has always known that Balinese and Siberian are the smartest members of Weiss. Bombay is the leader only because of his Takatori relations, and because of the fact that Kritiker trained him to lead a field team since he was a kid. He may have more education than the others, but education does not make one smart. Yet, interacting with Siberian, I seem to forget all of this. He acts stupid. He has a dizzy façade that he hides behind.

I really have nothing better to do than sit around and think. Siberian's been working full day shifts every day this week. I wake up when he does; it really can't be helped. I've always been a light sleeper. He spends his nights on the couch, despite the fact that I'm the guest and it's his bed, and his attempts to get ready quietly in the morning usually fail. I get up, get dressed, and eat whatever breakfast he's cooked.

Siberian's meals are, for the most part, pretty damn good. The best I've had in a while, considering the fact that no one in Schwarz could cook better than me, and I can't cook worth shit. The meal he made on the first day of the truce was delicious, despite the odd ingredients. His personal recipe for 'chicken cacciatore,' he said. The only real Italian food I've ever had. Pizza doesn't count.

Once he leaves for work, I read the newspaper. All of it. Beginning to end. I'm so fucking bored. After the newspaper is done, I just…sit. Sometimes I wander into the living room and watch TV, but I'm really not much of a TV person. There are some magazines on the coffee table in there, sports magazines mostly, but I read them all the first day.

There are no books in this apartment. No computer. Nothing…human. It seems empty, almost. The bedroom is barren, the kitchen is always clean and everything is kept away from sight, the living room looks barely-used. There is one more room in the hallway that I haven't seen yet, but it probably looks like the rest. Maybe it's completely empty. What a depressing way to live. At least the Schwarz apartments had signs of life. Dishes in the sink, dirty towels in the bathroom, scattered knives on the living room floor. I hated it then, but I think I miss it now. Pathetic.

I fold the newspaper back into its original shape and set it on the table. I don't know what Siberian does with the papers. Maybe he recycles them. Maybe he throws them away. Either way, they're gone by dinner. I'm so bored. I lean back in the chair and balance it on two legs, trying to think of things to occupy myself with.

I'm not sure how long I'm going to stay here. My wounds are almost healed. This arrangement makes me uneasy, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it might be my safest option. Essett is looking for me. But I think the last place they'd look for me is with one of Weiss.

At the same time, I feel as if I might be pulling Siberian into something that could get him killed, or worse. When it comes to dealing with Essett, there are things worse than death. I have witnessed them first hand. He did offer to let me stay here, and I suppose he should take responsibility for the consequences. But Siberian doesn't know the whole story. How could he possibly know all the risks of letting me stay here? And, of course, do I really care if he's in danger? Sure, he did help me out by letting me stay here, and I should probably feel like I owe him something, but I don't. It's not as if I asked him if I could stay here. I don't owe him anything.

For some reason, that makes me feel guilty.

* * *

"Yo, Ken, what's up with your hand?"

Yohji's voice snaps me out of my flower-arranging daze. The shop has been busy, and after dropping two flower pots consecutively, I've been assigned to one of the back tables to construct white rose bouquets for an upcoming wedding. Yohji's at the other table, handling a different order, while Aya and Omi work the front of the shop.

I notice the blood dripping down onto the steel countertop and turn my hand over to inspect the damage. The flower shears I'm working with have gashed my palm open, a long line of a wound that starts at the top of my hand and reaches almost to my wrist. I must have grabbed the scissors wrong or set my hand down on them. I'm not sure. I watch as blood wells up from beneath my skin, the pattering of the drops on the counter increasing slightly in speed. A few splatters hit one of the long-stemmed white roses, the pink spreading across the white petals like infectious mold.

"Christ, Ken, can't you feel that?" Yohji comes around to my table, eyeing the cut. There is a small first aid kit in his hand; he must have fetched it while I was examining the wound. He moves my collection of roses out of the way and sets down the first aid kit, pulling out a roll of gauze and some medical tape.

"You know how my hands are," I reply as he pulls my hand towards him. With one hand on my wrist he slowly wraps the cut. I can feel a faint sting, deep down in my palm, but that's all. I can't feel the gauze or the cut, only his hand on my wrist and that itchy stinging sensation.

"Yeah, I know," he says, and silence reigns once again as he continues bandaging my hand. The blood seeps through the first few layers of gauze and he grabs more out of the kit.

I can smell cigarettes and shampoo as he leans closer to get at a better angle for wrapping the gauze. I would wrap it myself, but it's kind of tricky to bandage something using only one hand. I could try to do it, but I don't mind letting Yohji do it instead. If Omi or Aya had been back here, I wouldn't have let them wrap my hand.

I trust Yohji more than anyone else. I've known him the longest, after all, and the bonds we formed when it was just us, before we were assigned to Omi and we became Weiss, cannot be severed.

I know why he has nightmares every time he sleeps, and he knows why I don't take my shirt off when others are around. He was the only one who cared when I tried to run off with Yuriko, he's the only reason I didn't go. He is the one person who knows about my hands, and he is the only one, besides the Kritiker doctors, who has seen my scars.

I used to revel in the quiet moments between us, so like the way it used to be. But now I feel as if I have betrayed Yohji. He trusts me. He trusts me not to go off and do stupid things, not to keep secrets from him. I've done both. It makes me feel horridly guilty, and I suppose it should. Every day that we work together things feel more strained, at least on my end.

Yohji suspects something, I can tell. He knows that something is up with me, something is different, but he also knows that I will tell him if he needs to know. He won't press me, that's not how our relationship works. And as much as I appreciate that, sometimes I wish he would force me to talk, to tell him what's going on. You know a person is truly concerned about you when he butts into your business.

"Oh Ken-kun, I was wondering—hey, what'd you do to your hand?" Omi has come around the corner from the front of the shop, presumably on a mission to ask me a favor.

There are some people whom I wish would stay out of my business.

"Ken cut himself on the flower shears," Yohji explains while finishing the wrapping on my hand. I bring it back to my side before Omi can look. As cute as everyone thinks Omi is, sometimes I wish he would just leave me alone.

"Geez Ken-kun, can't you be more careful?"

'Gee, Omi-kins, can't you be less obnoxious,' is my initial response, but I wisely bite my tongue and settle for a more mundane, "I'll try."

I begin gathering my scattered roses, tossing the blood-spotted ones away. Yohji wanders back to his own table, resuming work on his current arrangement. Omi hovers nearby, like a mosquito. I wonder, if I was to slap Omi like I slap mosquitoes, would he go away? Maybe he would make a small, bloody explosion. I should test this hypothesis.

"Ken-kun, I have a favor to ask," he begins, blue eyes turned towards the floor, hands laced behind his back. The picture of childhood. I should have slapped him.

"Ask away," I say. I should take refusal-and-death-glare lessons from Aya. I wonder if he'd charge me any money for that? He doesn't seem the type to do charity work, although one never knows.

"I'm going to a soccer game tonight, with some friends…"

"The Japan versus Brazil one?" I prod, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

"Yeah, and I was wondering if I could borrow one of your old jerseys, one of the practice ones," he pauses, and I can almost hear the rest of that statement, 'one of the ones without your name on the back.' He doesn't say it, but I know it's there.

"You know, to wear, for team spirit and all," he concludes, looking down at the floor sheepishly. How cute, how innocent, I think I'll go barf now. How can he ask me this? Does he have any idea how much my jerseys mean to me? Even the practice jerseys…they're all I've got left. But…I can't say no to him. I can't say no to anyone. That's been my problem all along.

"Yeah, I guess you can," I respond, running my fingers through my bangs, brushing them back from my face. Omi smiles before thanking me enthusiastically, adding that he would come pick up the jersey after work before going back to the front of the shop.

Yohji catches my attention from across the room and holds up a box of cigarettes. He tilts his head towards the back door. Smoking break.

"Wanna come?"

He's not offering cigarettes. He's offering support, silence, a break and a chance to breathe. I glance down at the white-rose arrangement. It can wait.

"Sure."

* * *

I jog up the stairs to my apartment two at a time. Omi's coming over in a few minutes to pick up my jersey and I need to warn Nagi. I need to find some place for the kid to hide. I unlock the door and kick off my shoes, almost stumbling in my haste. I find Nagi asleep on the couch, the TV playing the news mutedly, white captions running along the bottom. The voiceless reporter is covering the day's big event, a plane crash over the ocean.

"Naoe-san!" I call, hoping he'll wake easily. I don't want to touch him, he might freak out and use his powers.

He doesn't respond. I try again. Nothing.

"Jesus, this kid sleeps like a freaking rock," I mutter to myself. I'm running out of time.

"Nagi!"

The kid sits up with a jerk and glares at me, using one hand to push his hair out of his face.

"What?" he asks, irritated. I feel bad for waking him, but I'd rather have a pissed off Nagi instead of a dead one.

"Omi's coming, you need to hide." I explain, and he blinks at me before asking where.

I think for a second before coming to a decision. The best place would definitely be the storage room.

"Go into the last room in the hall, and just stay there until I come get you," I say as he stands up. He nods and moves quietly down the hall. I glance over the apartment, making sure that nothing seems out of the ordinary. I'm lucky Nagi's not a messy person. I hear the click of the door as Nagi shuts himself into the library, and a moment later I hear the snap of the lock. Smart kid. Now Omi won't be able to go in there even if he feels curious.

A moment later there's a knock at the front door. I give the apartment one last glance before letting Omi in.

"Hi Ken-kun," he greets me, as if we had not just parted ten minutes ago. I smile and tell him to come inside, ever the gracious host, and shut the door behind him.

"I'll go get the jersey, you can just wait here if you want," I say before heading down the hall and into my bedroom. I don't want him in my bedroom. My sheets, although I have cleaned them, are still bloodstained. I'm going to have to get new ones, but I haven't had a chance yet. I'm sure the stains would raise suspicions in dear Omi's precious little scientific mind.

Almost all of my soccer jerseys are hanging in my closet. I have a huge collection of jerseys from other teams, with the names of my favorite players on the backs, and some of them are even autographed. But there are no J-league jerseys hanging in my closet. They're in a box that stays under my bed. I slide the box out and flip it open, small puffs of dust coming from the top. I clean my apartment, I really do, but dust is always clumping all over everything.

I've got practice jerseys and competition jerseys, three of each for every season I played. The competition jerseys are nice material, brighter, with cooler designs than the practice jerseys, which are faded and stained with both grass and blood. But the competition jerseys have my name on the back. I can't blame Omi for not wanting to wear one. Who would want to wear the jersey of someone who's been blacklisted from the sport?

I grab the nicest practice jersey I can find. It looks small enough to fit Omi. I leave the box out and return to the living room, where I find that Omi has un-muted the TV and is watching the news. I hand him the jersey with a smile, pretending that I don't want to snatch it away from him.

"Ah, thank you so much Ken-kun," he says, beaming at me, "I'll bring it back tomorrow, and I promise not to spill anything on it!"

With that he's out the door, surely going to meet up with his friends. I hope they have a great time, hanging out and being social at the soccer game. I hope there's a riot in the stands and they all die.

I turn off the TV and head back to my room, intent on putting the box of jerseys away. They're like miniature stories of my life, these jerseys. For years, soccer was my life. And these jerseys capture it all. I run my hand over the newest of the jerseys, one of the competition ones from the last season I played. I never even got to wear it. They're all I've got left.

I never got to wear it.

He didn't even ask me if I wanted to go to the game too.

* * *

This room…is different than I thought it would be. I figured that, like the rest of the apartment, it would be void of personality. But this room is the only place with it. A computer sits on a desk against the wall closest to me. There's no Internet connection, and it's off, but it's new, and a fairly nice model. I checked it out when I first came in. Two bookshelves are next to the desk, crammed with novels of all genres. There's fiction, non-fiction, even college textbooks. Some appear to be in English. All appear well read, with cracked bindings and dog-eared corners. The closet contains various pieces of soccer equipment, presumably for Siberian's part-time job coaching soccer for little kids. The walls are decorated with replicas of famous paintings, along with some originals of artists I'm not familiar with.

It all seems fairly normal, except for what's in the farthest corner, next to the window. A stack of posters. I flipped through them all when I came in, curious as to why Siberian's got twenty or so posters leaning against the wall. Some are rolled up, others have been framed, one or two are still in their original wrappers, backed with cardboard. And they're all of Siberian. Or, rather, Ken Hidaka. Soccer posters.

Some are team pictures, some are individual shots of just Ken, some are pictures of him during games. I knew that he was a soccer player; Esset kept us well informed of each Weiss member's past. I never realized he was that famous, though. I flip through them again and realize that all of the posters have price stickers on them. The stickers are from different places; second hand shops, discount stores, but no real sports stores. A few of the posters have autographs on them. Those are the ones from the second hand stores.

Almost all of the posters still have receipts attached to them. I examine the receipts, only to find another oddity. The posters that were purchased by credit card all have receipts with signatures on them. And the name that's signed on them is Yohji Kudoh. Balinese.

But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Balinese buy posters of Siberian, and then give them to Siberian? Maybe Siberian is collecting them? But then why would he have them stacked in a corner carelessly?

The sound of the front door closing startles me out of my thoughts. Bombay must have left. I hear footsteps in the hallway, but they stop short of this room. Siberian went into his bedroom instead. Perhaps he forgot I was in here? Well, now that I know Bombay has left, it's safe for me to leave the room. Maybe…I'd like to ask Siberian if I could use his computer while he's at work. Maybe he has a few games on it.

I unlock the door and step into the hallway, heading towards Siberian's bedroom softly. I don't want to startle him; I don't think he's used to other people being around him much. I stop at the doorway to the bedroom, glancing inside. Siberian is on his knees in front of the bed, facing away from me. There's a box next to him, and I can see blue material poking out over the top. And…

I turn and head back to the other room, trying to be as quiet as possible. I don't want him to know I saw him. I sit down in the middle of the floor, shutting the door but not locking it. I float one of the college textbooks from the bookshelf over to me and spread it open in my lap. I'll wait here. Siberian can come get me when he's ready.

I think he was crying.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. And now for some review-replies:  
_**carrothien **_and_** gonyos:**_ thank you for reviewing. I hope this update is soon enough! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far.  
_**thecalen:** _thank you for your review. I'm glad you like Omi; I had (and still have) some worries about the way I'm doing his character. Sorry about the tense change; the story was originally supposed to be all in past third-person, and when I changed to present first-person, I didn't feel like changing the prologue (that's my excuse, anyways.) And I've never really thought about interchanging 'freak' and 'fuck,' I just write it the way it sounds most natural to me...(that's how I really talk! Such language...)  
_**Niko: **_I'm glad you like it, and thanks so much for reviewing! I wanted to pick a combination of characters that isn't done as much as some of the others, and I think Ken and Nagi aremuch more similar than either of them realize. I hope you enjoyed this part as well.  
_**Chitoshiya no Tohma: **_thank you for reading and reviewing. To be honest, I did start this fic with the intention of making it KenxNagi, but I'm not actually sure if it will go in that direction now. Maybe! It might end up being a different pairing, though... Anyways, I hope you'll continue reading despite that!_


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